


The Colour of the Sea

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Feels, Artists, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 05:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14909448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: There was a boy whom she couldn't quite forget....Waves splashed against his ankles, and his head was tilted, almost as if he were listening to an invisible song...





	The Colour of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Human names:
> 
> Wy: Wendy  
> Sealand: Peter Kirkland  
> England: Arthur Kirkland

His eyes were the colour of the sea.

The waves splashed against his ankles, surging forward and ebbing in turn, reaching out but pulling back reluctantly. His head was tilted, almost as if the sea’s sighs and the wails of the gulls had been combined into one strained melody that only he could decipher. There was a meaning to it that was lost in an instant; a sad song that crumbled like salt into the air and disappeared, never to be found again.

For a moment he turned and looked back, and she saw that his eyes were blue – so, so blue. 

\---

She couldn’t quite forget that boy.

He’d stood in a world of blue – the glimmering hues of the sea met the vast bright canvas of the sky – and his eyes were blue too, but he stood out all the same. There was something about him that Wendy simply couldn’t place, and though she raised her brush she knew that it was impossible to capture the memory and hold it in place.

The boy eluded her, and so did the colour of his eyes.

\---

He was there again, and she ran up to him.

“I’m Peter Kirkland,” he said, his eyes wide with excitement, “and I’m going to see the world!”

Perhaps it was the first time that someone had bothered to take notice of him, for his expression was one of slight amazement. “You looked so serene back then,” Wendy wanted to say, but she didn’t know if she had a right to be disappointed – so she stared into his eyes, and tried to etch their colour into her memory.

“You’ll have to wait a few years to travel the world,” she said, memories of tickets and flights and endless, endless paperwork drifting unpleasantly through her mind. “Besides, don’t you have school?”

“But I can’t wait!” exclaimed Peter, and for a moment the unwelcome shadow of maturity stole across his childish face. “I’m thirteen! I can make my own decisions!”

“Suit yourself.” There was work to be done, so Wendy turned to leave, but Peter’s voice raced through the cold air and rooted her in place.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked, the sand crunching beneath his feet as he took a step towards her. 

“Yeah, I guess, for a while.” The sea was soothing, and it helped her meditate on her paintings.

“And the day after that, and after that, and every day for the rest of the year?” With a few quick movements he bounced into her field of vision, watching her expectantly.

As annoying as Peter was, Wendy couldn’t deny that there was something irritably endearing about it all. Yet she knew that it was impossible to stay put in one place – she was blown by the wind, swept along with her family’s plans; a falling leaf that didn’t know where it would be scattered.

“I’ll be here,” she said, not knowing what she was saying.

\---

And she was.

Days breezed by and months slipped past, silently, unassumingly. Sometimes Wendy wondered how long the beach had sat there, idly counting the years with the gradual erosion of its rocks. Ever since she’d arrived, it had always been there – and with the beach came Peter, and with him there was meaningless conversation.

They talked for hours about nothing. It became a routine, and after school she’d head straight to the shores and sit down on the sand with him and do her homework while he chattered about anything and everything in the world. It seemed he had nothing better to do, for he was home-schooled – “My father teaches me about all the countries in the world, in preparation for my arrival!” said Peter, when she asked him about it – and so day after day he would be sitting there, waiting for her. 

But it wasn’t bad. It was nice to not have to think, and Peter didn't make intolerable company. At the very least, he was always there, unlike her parents who were constantly flying overseas and coming home late from another day of overtime.

She’d have to leave him someday, but Wendy didn’t want to dwell on that.

Once, she brought her paints down to the beach and tried to create the blue of his eyes. His eyes were the colour of the sea, but they weren’t – there was something different in them, a joy and a vitality that paint just wouldn’t bring to life.

Her brush was heavy in her hand, and Wendy soon stopped trying.

It was far easier, after all, to admire his eyes with her own.

\---

He wasn’t there anymore.

She waited. Every day after school she would still go to the beach and look for him, walk up and down the long yellow strip of sand and turn her head and call his name and feel stupid, but try anyway.

But he never came back.

\---

She’d been silly to think that he’d always be there.

Maybe if she’d made more of an effort, he’d still be willing to spend time with her. As it was, Wendy could only think that Peter had gradually given up on getting her to respond to his enthusiasm. 

“But I liked being with you,” she said, but he wasn’t there to reply; only the gulls, swooping overhead in their ever-intent watch, heard her voice. The waves whispered in her ear, and for a moment Wendy thought she could hear what Peter had been listening to all those months ago. But it was different now.

His eyes weren’t the colour of the sea. 

\---

They were returning to Australia, and she had to follow.

So, for the last time, she went to the beach after school. People swarmed together like bees and the air hummed with the buzz of conversation, but Wendy was alone. Perhaps she’d always been alone, and it’d just taken her a while to realise it.

She’d miss this place. She’d miss Peter, even if he didn’t think about her anymore. 

Where was he, anyway?

For a wild moment Wendy considered looking for him. It wasn’t a large town – it wouldn’t surprise her if everyone knew everyone else, and maybe if she asked around for long enough, she’d –

She turned, and found her answer.

“Hello,” the man said, his voice harsh and scratchy. “What’s your name?” There was an odd look in his eyes, and Wendy felt like he already knew the answer; when she looked up at him and ignored the startling greenness of his eyes and the tired slant of his face, she could almost pretend that the person before her was an older Peter.

“My name is Wendy.”

“Oh.” Like she’d thought, the answer didn’t seem to surprise him. “Peter told me a lot about you.” He blinked, and made a vague, pointless gesture. “My, uh, son. Peter Kirkland.”

There was something that he had to tell her. 

“Where is he?” 

Peter’s father glanced to the side. “Um.” His hands rooted into his coat pockets, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Well.” He rolled his shoulders back, and sucked in a deep breath.

“He’s not here anymore.”

\---

He was dead.

He’d been sick for a long time, and she hadn’t known a thing about it.

That night she buried her face in her pillow and cried, and sobbed, and mouthed words that she’d wished she’d said but now it was too late and there was nothing she could do. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’m sorry, so please – ”

But Peter was gone.

\---

His eyes were the colour of the sea.

For the sea was a part of him, and his memory was linked inextricably with it. It had always been Peter and the sea – nothing more, and nothing less. 

He’d wanted to travel the world; maybe when he gazed at the vast blue expanse before him he’d seen countless horizons stretching breaths away from his fingers. 

There were so many things that Wendy could have told him – “I saw the Swiss Alps,” she should’ve said, “and the statue of Jeanne d’Arc in Paris, and the Summer Palace in Beijing – ” but it was too late, and now it was impossible for him to live a second life through her stories and experiences. 

Perhaps his soul, freed from its earthly constraints, could soar through the skies and see the world laid out before him. That would make him happy, wouldn’t it? Then he’d finally be able to do everything he wanted, and chase his dream through the green grasses and grey mountains and glimmering glades –

And so Peter’s blue eyes embraced her softly, like a warm, wispy wind.


End file.
